


love me, don't be a fool

by bearcantwrite (orphan_account)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Arguing, Canon Universe, Dominance, Eloping, Fake Marriage, Fights, First Meetings, Fluff, Foreign Language, French Characters, Heavy Angst, Hook-Up, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage, Married Couple, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Public Masturbation, Smut, Teasing, anatole's "wife" isn't real, dolokhov's got a french kink its CANON sorry, i shamelessly ripped quotes from the song+book SO, rushed ending because my phones on 20 percent big oof, sort of? its very VERY brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bearcantwrite
Summary: Alternate title: how "Preparations" should have ended.





	1. Preparations Made

**Author's Note:**

> lol i worked 12+ hours on this  
> enjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole and Dolokhov's fights were a lot more different than one would think.

Calling Dolokhov his lover is still hard to think about.

There’s no doubt they’ve loved one another since their first encounter all those years ago. Anatole seemed so eager at the time, when Dolokhov couldn’t keep his hands off him in the club, and when Anatole could still taste the rum on Dolokhov’s lips, and when Dolokhov pinned the Prince down into his bed and nearly tore off his clothes. They only met that night, yet they enjoyed every inch of each other like they’ve been in love for years, and Anatole became addicted to the way Dolokhov kissed him, touched him, claimed him. In the middle of it all, Anatole had moaned out, _I love you,_ and it only carried from there.

Over the years, the ravenous nights turned into flirtatious days; the days turned into weeks; the weeks into months; the months turned into their first real kiss, followed by multiple behind closed doors, until finally Anatole, with shaking hands and conflict clouding his mind, sent his first letter to Dolokhov. The first letter led to many more, until in the darkest hour of the coldest night of the year, the two young lovers, intoxicated by nothing but pure passion and rum, mysteriously disappeared from Moscow without a trace. When they returned after three days, there suddenly appeared two matching brass rings on both their fingers.

Despite being married, however, they never brought it up to the public, or even to each other. When Anatole ever thought about loving another man, he felt sick to his stomach. He’s grown up his whole life being told to find a lovely young lady to court, being dragged to meet bright-eyed, airheaded princesses, none of which really caught Anatole’s attention.

 _We haven’t found the right one,_ his father would say. _It takes time, but time is running out, Anatole. One of them must catch your eye even a little bit?_

Desperate for the courtship and possibly arranged marriages to end, Dolokhov helped him with a story of a Polish landowner marrying him to his daughter against his will, which would also explain their disappearance from Moscow. People believed his fictional story, but it never properly relaxed the Prince’s crippling doubts.

That’s when he met Natasha. The first girl in his life he ever found beautiful, causing him to take immediate action. Anatole was able to convince Dolokhov to help him with a plan to elope with Natasha, _This would be a cover-up I can actually prove to the world,_ Anatole said, with his damned charming smile that Dolokhov could never refuse to. Anatole and Dolokhov calculated every single ruble needed for this elopement, mapped out the quickest and most discreet way to Kamenka, counted down the days until everything was ready.

All they need to do is wait for Balaga.

Adrenaline runs through Anatole’s veins as he paces back and forth in Dolokhov’s study. Dolokhov is sitting at his desk, fingers tapping anxiously on the wooden pattern with two lukewarm cups of tea sitting before him. Anatole knows Dolokhov is watching him, every little movement he makes, every breath he takes. The anxiety conflicts with eagerness in Anatole’s stomach, and the tension is killing him. Every little noise the Prince hears, he jumps. Even the soft ticking of the clock is slowly driving him mad.

It seems that Dolokhov can’t take it anymore, either. The soldier comes up and grabs his hand. “Anatole, please,” Dolokhov sighs. “Come sit down. Any more pacing and you’ll make a hole in the floor.”

Anatole huffs. “No,” he mutters and breaks away from the soldier’s strong grip. “No, I will not sit down.”

“He can’t be far, I know he can’t be.”

“It’s nearly been an hour,” Anatole anxiously fiddles with the collar of his unbuttoned uniform.

“Anatole, if this stresses you so greatly, why don’t you just give it up? While there’s still time?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Give it up,” Dolokhov repeats, gazing at him. Dolokhov stands beside him like he’s unsure of how to respond at first, like two cats slowly eyeballing a piece of scrapped prey left on the street. “Drop it, I mean it, Anatole. Do you know how dangerous of a business this is? Besides that, you’re crumbling to bits.”

“You wouldn’t know that.”

“I’ve been in bed with you,” retorts the soldier. “I’m supposed to know that by now.”

Anatole hates that Dolokhov is right. His arms are folded in a fashion less confident and more vulnerable; his spine is not straight, in fact he’s shrinking into himself as much as possible; his bright blue eyes are not glittering, nor are they bright - they’re distant and dull with exhaustion and anxiety and loss of hope; every negative emotion one could pile into a man without killing him.

However, the Prince scoffs. “Nonsense,” he says and shakes his head.

“Anatole,” Dolokhov says firmly, an attempt to keep everything under control. “Come sit down, now.” Dolokhov presses the Prince’s arms again to coax him over to a chair. “Just listen to me, _look_ at me, Anatole-”

“Go to Hell, eh?” Anatole steps away. “You know nothing, don’t speak of nonsense, I- I can’t keep up with your stupid jokes.”

“You think I know nothing?” Dolokhov’s brow furrows. “Me, of all people? I’ve heard what elopments are like. You would know as well.” Anatole cringes when he sees the matching rings of brass across their fingers. “If they catch you, you’ll end up in the criminal court, convicted; your name will be tarnished across Moscow.”

“Nonsense!” Anatole says again, raising his voice. “I’ve told you, go to the Devil!”

“Do you hear what I’m saying or not?” Dolokhov asks more irritated. “Or do you just not care? I’ve helped you coordinate this whole thing, and this is the thanks I receive?” He smirks condescendingly. “You have such a stubborn attachment most small-minded people have for conclusions they’ve worked out for themselves, to the point where it’s made you reckless.”

“Fool. What of it, eh? This is no time for your stupid jokes, Dolokhov, now for the last time I am not dropping all that I’ve planned for.”

“All _you’ve_ planned for? Who found the priest? Raised the money? Got the passports? Got the horses? Who suggested the thought of a cover-up story to begin with?”

“If you want all the credit, why now are you telling me to back out? What a coward you must be if you’re willing to drop this plan after so much.”

“I’m no coward, Kuragin,” Dolokhov hisses. “I’ve spoken up countless times. I’ve told you this was a bad idea from the start, but did you ever choose to listen to me? Ever? No. You refuse to believe this is a dangerous idea - practically a death wish. This kind of plan is beyond serious. To kidnap a young girl, a young _betrothed_ girl. You don’t know the world of trouble you’d get yourself into without my help.” Dolokhov then scoffs, almost amusedly - proved his shoulders shaking with a venomous chuckle.

“If you find it such a serious business, why do you laugh so bitterly?”

“Because you’re already ‘married,’ _dorogoi._ Already married, and you’re playing with a little girl. Pray tell, do you ever think? In your life, has one rational thought ever popped into your mind? Once word gets out about your ‘elopement,’ word gets out about us. Do you want that? Our names will be torn to shreds by sunrise.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense! Didn’t I explain it to you?!” Anatole shouts. “Didn’t I- what- agh…!” He watches Dolokhov leans against the desk and the Prince gives a deep sigh while beginning the hundredth explanation of the plan. “If this marriage is invalid, that means I’m off the hook,” he starts to speak rapidly. “But if it is valid, it really doesn’t matter. No one abroad is gonna know a thing about it, isn’t that so?” He gulps, knowing it’s beginning to escalate as Dolokhov’s words settle into his skin like poison; a kind of truthful poison Anatole has never wanted to hear.

The Prince’s blue eyes cloud over with panic, and his hands begin to shake. It’s rare these episodes of panic happen, but if it goes too far, it’s bound to get ugly very quickly. “The wedding starts in another hour. It takes an hour and a half to ride to Kamenka. Probably 45 minutes with Balaga’s speed, but it doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t arrive soon, the priest won’t wait for us any longer, and he won’t be there, and all of this will have been for nothing. And not a word from you about it!”

“Drop it,” Dolokhov snarls, standing his ground. “You’ll work yourself up over nothing-”

“I said not a word!” Anatole rebukes. “I dare say you’re jealous of this whole ordeal! Oh, what is it all? Who are you to say anything about this to me?”

“I’m saying all this because I don’t want you to leap before you look. Not wanting the man I married to be locked up for years, or God knows what else, is considered bitter envy? Is it a crime to care about you once in a while?”

“Perhaps it is!” Anatole cringes and feels his stomach churn, as if he might become sick right now. “Don’t talk to me of that!” He yells. “Don’t- don’t- what- what- agh! Go to Hell!” He clutches his hair and stomps on the ground, shrinking into himself. “Oh, all is wrong! It’s the very devil!”

“Anatole, come here,” says Dolokhov, at first in a tone that’s similar to a demand. Anatole doesn’t budge, in which Dolokhov tries to caress his cheek. “Come here,” he says with a little less fire in his voice.

“Don’t touch me,” Anatole snaps with a choke in his throat, nudging his hand away. “Don’t _ever_ touch me, Fyodor. Go to Hell, for all I care! Oh god, what is it all? What is it?! What’s it to you, anyway?! I swear to God, I’ll-...”

A few sullen seconds of silence. Anatole thinks it’s under control, but just seeing Dolokhov glare at him like no man has before, feeling panic sit coldly in his gut, with only the softly ticking clock breaking the silence - it all becomes too much for him, and the Prince suddenly goes stiff and feels his lungs constrict. “It’s not right,” he chokes. The blood rushing to his heart makes it difficult to breathe, and as a result Anatole shrinks downwards.

Dolokhov’s face twists. “Anatole?” He suddenly speaks so quietly that no one would even think the soldier was previously fuming with anger. “Lover, come here, come here.” He reaches out, but Anatole trembles and turns away at first notice. “Anatole, please say something.”

But the Prince doesn’t speak. In moments like these, Anatole usually doesn’t allow Dolokhov’s comfort; he instead brushes it off, turns in for the night, and acts like nothing happened the next day. But however, Anatole knows Dolokhov. He knows the soldier isn’t afraid and isn’t backing down. He’s done this multiple times, so he has no reason to.

Anatole feels Dolokhov slowly slide his arms around him from behind. “Focus on me,” Dolokhov murmurs. “It’s just me.” Dolokhov presses a hand to Anatole’s rapidly rising chest, where his heart beats like a military drum. “Put yourself in my hands.”

It seems to work for a moment. Anatole’s chest slowly rises and falls. His rigid body starts melting into his husband’s loving hold. “Darling…”

“Much better.” Dolokhov presses a kiss to Anatole’s shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“I…” Anatole says shakily, still trembling like a leaf. Dolokhov’s lecture still stings his naive mind. _If they catch you, you’ll end up in the criminal court, convicted. Once word gets out about your ‘elopement,’ word gets out about us. Not wanting the man I married to be locked up for years, or God knows what else, is considered bitter envy? Is it a crime to care about you once in a while?_ “I don’t want her,” he finally spits out.

“Huh?”

“No,” Anatole’s throat constricts again. “No, no, I don’t ever want her, to Hell with her. It’s all wrong. Why did I interfere? What did I do? Oh God, nothing’s right, nothing’s ever right. No no, don’t— _mon cher,_ I’m— please, don’t. Don’t let go Fedya, please.” That’s when Anatole bursts into tears. His whole body shakes with noiseless, convulsive sobs and shrinks into itself, as though the Prince were trying to make himself invisible.

Anatole is guided to a nearby sofa in the study, where the Prince continues to sob _No,_ and _Nothing is right,_ and _Don’t let go,_ until he sits down and feels Dolokhov press a kiss into his hair. That’s when Anatole finally gives in and allows Dolokhov to embrace him, pet through his light blond hair and plant kisses on his head, all while he sobs into the soldier’s chest. Anytime Dolokhov’s grip on him loosens, Anatole gives a pitiful whine that only makes the soldier hug him tighter.

“Anatole,” he coos. “ _Mon coeur,_ I’m by your side. I’m not going anywhere, not without you. Breathe, my angel, _respirer._ ” The bit of French he’s learned slips off his tongue perfectly, and Anatole relaxes just a little bit. “There, there, sshhh…” Anatole suddenly takes in an abrupt gasp and starts sobbing for real, leading the Prince to realize he’s barely been breathing at all - it explains his bright red face.

“Shh shhh,” Dolokhov presses Anatole’s back to try and ground him. “ _Dorogoi,_ please, you must breathe.” Anatole feels firm but tender circles rubbed into his back, and then his second gasp is less severe, a good sign. “Yes, do that again… again…” Dolokhov guides him. “Slower. That’s better. You’re breathing much better. Keep going, my lover, come back to me.” Anatole feels loving kisses pressed to the side of his neck, encouraging his chest to rise and fall slower, and his eyes to stop blinking away tears.

Maybe ten minutes go by, and Dolokhov continues to hush and hum in Anatole’s ear. Anatole is still very rigid and stiff, but little by little, he stops trembling and his tears are dried - with Dolokhov’s help. He sits in his husband’s embrace, unmoving and unresponsive. When the silence starts to kill him, outside he suddenly hears the rapid trotting of horse hooves carrying an entirely new package of chaos.

Anatole feels a kiss on his jawline and he meets Dolokhov with tired eyes. “Balaga is here,” the soldier says.

“Tell him to go,” Anatole mumbles.

Dolokhov raises his eyebrows in shock. “To go, as in…?”

“As in go away.”

“Are you—”

“Please don’t dawdle, _mon coeur._ ”

Anatole sits up straight and folds his hands into his lap while Dolokhov gets up without another word and leaves the room for a moment. He keeps his head low while fresh tears trickle down his cheeks. But when a hand through his hair brings him back up, Dolokhov is sitting by his side again with a newly brewed cup of tea on the table by them. The Prince can’t help a gracious smile as he sips the cup with slow breaths, allowing Dolokhov to press his side, kiss the top of his head, anything as long as the two are close.

“What did you mean by you don’t want her?” questions the soldier.

“Natasha,” Anatole answers meekly. “I don’t want her, Fedya, I… I don’t love her. You’re right, _mon mari,_ none of it would be worth it in the end. I want you.” He touches his hand to Dolokhov’s face. “You’re all I ever wanted, but… I can’t accept that. I can’t. I only ever wanted Natasha so my father would believe I’ve courted a young woman.”

“Yet you didn’t know she was betrothed?”

“I knew. I suppose I just… never cared. Oh, what would Andrey say? My father?”

“They won’t say anything,” Dolokhov soothes. “Not if we clean this mess up and go about our lives.”

“All I know is I want you,” Anatole brings their lips together momentarily. “I want you, darling, I always have… but I was so frightened of what could have happened. I’m so deeply sorry.”

“Shh,” Dolokhov quiets him. “No more of that.” He wipes Anatole’s tears, though his eyes are glistening as well. “No more fighting. No more yelling. No more tears. I’m as scared as you are, angel. I’m mortified of anything happening to you. Which is why I was so keen on you dropping this plan.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you had me tell Balaga to drive off?”

Anatole nods his head and sets the now empty cup down to tightly embrace the soldier. “You’re my only one,” he mumbles. “Don’t know how I’ve been living before I met you.”

“I’d say the same,” Dolokhov brings their lips together. “My angel, I’ve only ever wanted you. Even our first night together,” Anatole blushes on memory. “I realized I’ve only wanted to share those nights with you,”

Anatole presses Dolokhov’s left hand and runs his thumb over the ring while they kiss again. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Dolokhov’s lips absentmindedly travel to the bolt of Anatole’s jaw, resulting in a playful, very light, swat upside the head. “Goodness,” Anatole laughs. “You say I’m aroused more easily.”

“Could you blame me?” Dolokhov grins.

Anatole sighs and leans into another tight cuddle with his husband. “Maybe I can’t.”

“Exactly.”


	2. The Hook-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Anatole and Dolokhov meet?
> 
> I'm glad you asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you asked for part two YOU GOT A PART TWO

Dolokhov can hardly believe his luck. He’d just gone to the club for a couple of drinks, maybe dance for an hour or two, and head on home by himself. But rather than head home alone, Dolokhov’s in the bedroom of Prince Anatole Kuragin.

It starts out with seeing a flash of light blond hair and a swirling green tailcoat in the club. Dolokhov’s finished his drink by now - and considers ordering another one - when he suddenly sees a man he’s never seen before, twirling and dipping swooning ladies all throughout the dance floor. Dolokhov’s unable to get a good view of him, but he keeps an eye on him the whole night. The man looks to be tall, no more than Dolokhov’s age, with platinum blond hair and a charming smile. His green tailcoat swishes and spins with him while he twirls with any lucky girl who finds her way into his arms, and each time he spins he shows off the unnaturally attractive curves in his hips, which makes Dolokhov’s heart skip a beat.

It isn’t long before the man twirls his way off the dance floor and to the bar, right next to where Dolokhov is sitting, where he orders a drink and meets Dolokhov’s eyes. Dolokhov realizes this man has bright, piercing blue eyes that could stare right through the souls of even the strongest of men. “You’ve been watching me,” the man says, his voice smooth and rich like velvet.

Dolokhov isn’t paying attention. “I— I’m sorry?” His heart is going crazy, the man is sitting right by him. _He’s as lovely up close as at a distance._

“Don’t act naive.” The man gives a stupidly attractive smile. “Sitting there with your jaw dropped. You’ll catch flies, my good man.” He receives his drink and begins to sip. Dolokhov takes this as a cue to turn away from humiliation. “Shy, eh?” The man laughs, one of the most beautiful things Dolokhov has ever heard - his laugh is clear and ringing, like a bell. “I’ve only just arrived in Moscow, friend, I’ve yet to make any new acquaintances.”

Dolokhov gains his composure for a moment and turns back to the man. “I thought I had never seen you around these parts.” He holds his hand out. “Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov. My comrades call me Fedya.”

The man shakes his hand. “Prince Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin.”

 _His hand is beyond soft. I just might faint._ “Ooh, a prince?” Dolokhov teases. “What brings you here to Moscow, Your Highness, dancing ‘till the early hours of the morning?”

“Just Anatole will do,” Anatole laughs again. “And I’ve practically invented the nightlife, _monsieur._ I’ve just come from Petersburg, looking for new… pleasures, if I may.” Dolokhov can 

“Well, Anatole,” Dolokhov admits with a grin. “I’d be lying if I claimed seeing you twirl those ladies across the floor didn’t capture my attention for hours.”

“So you _were_ staring.”

“Well, what’s it matter to you? You fancy them, do you not?” He asks jokingly.

However, Anatole’s eyes go wide. “Well it’s not that I’ve never fancied them, I’ve just never understood them. Especially those ladies or— or most women, but it doesn’t mean I don’t ever—”

“I never fancied them,” Dolokhov admits, cutting him off with a grin. “You are a terrible liar, Anatole.” The Prince blushes scarlet. “You don’t like women, do you?” Anatole shakes his head and averts eye contact. Dolokhov finds Anatole’s humiliation almost endearing to witness.

Anatole bites at his lip and sighs deeply in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than relieved. “Women. I’ve never understood them, my new friend. I’ve never enjoyed them. Not then, now, nor ever.”

“Neither will I. In fact, I’ve proved most women to be the most harmful people in my life. I’ve met such loving, noble, tender hearted - yet bold - high-class men, but nearly every woman I’ve encountered has only wanted one thing out of me - whether it be money, pleasure, pleasure _for_ money, a dance. They’re a mess, _mon cher,_ I’ll never understand.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

The two raise their glasses together, laugh, and start downing their drinks. It starts out as a simple sip, but the gulps turn bigger and quicker until it’s a contest between the new befriended lads to see who can drink the most. Anatole somehow finishes first, and Dolokhov is defeated.

“Unfair,” Dolokhov protests. “Your glass was half-empty to start with.”

“What can I say?” Anatole snickers out, hiccuping slightly as he purrs, “I’ve mastered the art of taking much at once.”

Dolokhov nearly chokes on the last quarter of his drink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.” Anatole smiles, but it’s a different smile. It’s not cheerful or good-natured, but it’s morphed into a smirk, a desirable yet teasing smile that seemed to call out to Dolokhov saying, _You want me? Come get me._ “Deeply sorry for disturbing you, _monsieur,_ I only hope I’m not moving so quickly.”

“There’s no need for apologies,” Dolokhov responds and smiles back, one that makes color rush to Anatole’s cheeks. “I’m a very forward man.”

“I thought so. You know, Fyodor, that’s exactly what makes me so fond of you. I could tell you get what you want just by the way you looked at me.” The Prince momentarily leans over a little closer against Dolokhov’s jaw to whisper, “But don’t forget: with other plentiful affairs I’ve had with men — some with reputations so high I wouldn’t dare speak their name — all of them offered pleasure, but none were truly able to handle me.”

Dolokhov feels a shiver up his spine while even worse blush creeps up his neck. “What do you mean by that?”

Anatole only gives that ridiculously hot smile again and pulls away. “If you were willing to find out, you’d know what I mean.”

“Willing to…?” Dolokhov trails off when their eyes meet again. There’s some kind of secret message that’s only shared between their gazes, and a smirk crawls onto his lips. “You think those ladies could wait for another dance?”

“Absolutely.”

Without another word, Dolokhov smiles, grabs Anatole by the cuff of his sleeve and hops on the nearest troika. The ride home seems to take forever, especially with Anatole occasionally sneaking a kiss onto the crook of his neck or Dolokhov pressing his lower back and nibbling his ear, but the soldier at one point hears soft noises in his ear. They sound like humming at first, tiny little whimpers. He regards them as teasing first glance, but the noises become repetitive - more shaky as time went on, and this time Anatole’s resting his head on Dolokhov’s shoulder. Dolokhov looks over at Anatole in eventual time when the soft noises are increasing in quantity and volume.

The heel of Anatole’s palm is discreetly grinding down onto his crotch, and dear God the Prince is _moaning_ into his ear.

“Anatole—?” Dolokhov blushes and watches the Prince palm himself quicker and quicker, covering up with his jacket that rests in both their laps — it’s a warm summer’s night, no need for one to begin with. “Dear Prince, are you—”

“Can’t help it,” Anatole reaches over to feel for Dolokhov’s crotch, the soldier catching his breath. “I haven’t had an experience like this in so long. I’ve been aching for it, _monsieur,_ I can only imagine how you look without all these layers on you.” He tries to find Dolokhov’s zipper, but the troika stops. The soldier still, to this day, can’t express his relief when Anatole finally leads him up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Dolokhov seizes Anatole by his shirt collar and locks their lips in a new, yet strangely addicting kiss. Anatole fumbles with his olive green tailcoat and it drops to the floor while Dolokhov bites down on the Prince’s pink, so very soft lip. He smirks when the Prince abruptly gasps and takes this as a further entrance into the kiss. When this happens, Anatole’s the first one to moan, it’s just as smooth, rich, velvety, and arousing as his own voice; Dolokhov wants more. One hand releases Anatole’s collar to grab his hair - which is softer than it looks - and gives the hair on the back of his head a brief yank, resulting in a louder moan from him and the Prince leaning closer to press their bodies together.

Dolokhov feels arousal jolt up his spine in sparks and moves the other hand from his collar to his hip. “You enjoy that?” He asks.

Anatole smiles and kisses the bolt of his jaw. “You have no idea, _monsieur._ ” Dolokhov can’t help but feel his cheeks be dusted pink when Anatole giggles, “Something tells me you enjoy when I call you that.”

Dolokhov only pulls Anatole’s hair again, and the Prince gives a low whine before backing him up onto the bed. “I wouldn’t tease like this, darling,” Anatole murmurs before straddling Dolokhov’s lap and grinding down, the soldier losing his breath with hands creeping up to unbutton the Prince’s vest and shirt. The soldier gives gentle grunts against his neck, to which he sucks a beautifully colored bruise there in the crook and kisses it.

“Why do you say that?” Dolokhov laughs breathily and presses his lips to Anatole’s neck. “You carry tricks up your sleeve?”

Anatole laughs back and pets through the soldier’s downy, black hair. “Well I don’t know about that. But you could keep kissing there at least, eh?” His hips grind in a fluid rhythm against Dolokhov’s crotch while he moans softer into his ear, “Then maybe I’d give you whatever you desire.”

Anatole doesn’t know it, but Dolokhov has a plan. He knows from their brief interaction that Anatole seems to enjoy having control as a bottom: he’s not about to let some high-and-mighty Prince take control of him, but he’s also not in the mood to fight for it tonight. So, Dolokhov lets his muscles relax while his hands slowly unbutton Anatole’s clothes and pull them off. He takes one look at the Prince’s body and, just for a second, considers saying to hell with the plan and pinning Anatole down right there. But Dolokhov knows patience is a key factor - he has to wait for Anatole to be relaxed, and unexpecting.

“Already getting shy, _monsieur?_ ” Anatole reaches for Dolokhov’s vest to begin pulling off his clothes. “How sweet… I know, it’s hard to resist, isn’t it?”

“Maybe a little bit.” Dolokhov quiets his voice down just slightly and shivers when Anatole’s lips are on his neck, and takes the smirk against his skin as a good sign.

“There’s no need to be,” Anatole whispers in his ear. “I can barely take this teasing, darling. _J'ai vraiment envie de toi, tu me rends fou._ ” Dolokhov’s hips jolt up when the French rolls off his tongue perfectly, the Prince’s soft lips explore his neck while their hips continued to frantically search for friction. “Go on, _monsieur._ ” Anatole tenderly guides the soldier’s hand to his hair. “ _Tire-moi les cheveux, s’il vous plaît..._ ”

Dolokhov complies with a tight grip, watching Anatole throw his head back, and he searches for a good spot to latch on and start sucking deep, deep bruises. The Prince reaches for something in his jacket pocket and lays it in Dolokhov’s hand. Dolokhov looks to see a small bottle filled with golden, thick liquid — too thin to be honey, too thick to be water. The soldier goes red on realizing it’s oil and he laughs, setting it aside. “You carry that everywhere?”

Anatole kisses Dolokhov before replying with, “Never leave home without it.” They laugh briefly, and return to their kiss.

Dolokhov gives slow, quiet moans and grinds up against Anatole’s rolling that seems to slow down. “Don’t stop—” mutters Dolokhov. “God, A-Anatole, I…”

Anatole sucks on the soldier’s neck and runs his hands through his hair. “You can talk to me,” the Prince giggles softly and leaves a kiss, sweet as sugar, on Dolokhov’s lips. “You can touch me. Darling, I’d let you do whatever you desire…” he gives a moan against his ear, and Dolokhov feels fresh chills up his spine. “What do you desire?” Anatole purrs out. “Speak to me, love~”

Dolokhov is panting. Now is the time to strike. “First off…” he adjusts a bit with Anatole in his lap. “This competition for control, it’s…” he smirks slowly. “... a little much for a man like me.” Without any other warning, he suddenly grabs the Prince and pushes him onto his back. “This is more my style, do you know?”

“ _Monsieur!_ ” Anatole exclaims when he’s pinned down and his blue eyes go wide — he is clearly not used to this. “Dolokhov, I… what’s gotten into you?” He tries cooing and coaxing the soldier, reaching out to caress him.

Dolokhov, however, isn’t having it. He yanks Anatole’s hair to pull his head back, which makes Anatole cry out, and gives Dolokhov an easier way to mouth at his neck. “You think you’re entitled to as much control as you wish,” he says in a much different tone - it’s low, it’s a snarl. “Just because you’re a Prince doesn’t mean you can make all the rules.”

Anatole’s eyes are screwed shut and his pink, swollen lips are just slightly agape. “Fedya,” he says meekly. “Fedya, darling, don’t be so torturous, please—”

“Shh,” it’s Dolokhov’s turn to speak mockingly-sweet this time. “As long as you’re good, I’ll think about letting you come… besides, you’ve said before none of the men you’ve been with have met your standards, did you not?” Anatole doesn’t answer, but instead chews his lip and looks away from Dolokhov’s dark, dark eyes. “The cocky Prince Anatole Kuragin is afraid of me?” Dolokhov can’t help but grin with pride as he watches the Prince’s legs practically fall to the sides. “Are you embarrassed? Is that it? What makes you so embarrassed you can’t even speak?”

“Fuck me,” thickly mumbles Anatole.

“What?” Dolokhov pulls his hair again, earning a weak, humiliated whimper. “Speak again, dear Prince.” This time, his hand travels down to meet Anatole’s waist and squeezes firmly.

“Fuck me,” Anatole moans his request louder when Dolokhov gropes him, and he starts to lose it. “ _S’il vous plaît, monsieur, braise-moi, prends moi. Tu peux me prendre dans tout les sens. J’en veux, j’ai envie de toi._ ”

Dolokhov growls louder when he hears Anatole purr and whimper out French that’s just as fluent and velvety as his own voice. He rolls his knee against Anatole’s crotch while his hands work hastily to tug off the rest of the Prince’s - and his own - clothing. All the while Dolokhov kisses and bites Anatole’s lips, to which Anatole rolls his hips and begs for more and Dolokhov complies; he presses their hips together and grinds down harder than before, to which it drives Anatole mad.

“Yes,” Anatole moans into his ear. “Oh God, _embrasse-moi, embrasse-moi encore, monsieur._ ” Dolokhov’s hips give an uncontrolled thrust forward; it causes Anatole to respond with with “ _Plus fort,_ ” and another moan.

Dolokhov watches each of Anatole’s movements; the Prince arches his back, his sharp blue eyes go between widening and screwing tight, his pink lips frequently become caught between his teeth; he listens to Anatole breathe out only the most desperate and dirty phrases in French; he feels Anatole’s hips grind in desperate, speeding rhythm with his own, only providing stronger relief for the both of them. 

Anything that puts a barrier between their skin, it’s off in an instant, until Dolokhov has the Prince completely undressed in front of him. “ _Tu me fais me sentir si bien,_ ” Anatole breathes, his nails dragging lightly up Dolokhov’s back, causing the soldier to shiver. “ _Continue comme ça, monsieur._ Don’t be shy around me.” He leaves a deeper kiss on Dolokhov’s lips and pets his cheek, his venomous yet desirable smirk crawling back onto his lips.

Dolokhov eagerly pushes fingers between Anatole’s swollen lips that ached from kissing. He smirks. “I’ve found a new way to shut you up, _dorogoi,_ ” he says. He watches the Prince suck on his fingers for a while, maybe a little too long. Thoughts run through his head when Anatole’s soft, pink lips are on him, for his mouth is probably the softest thing Dolokhov’s ever felt in the world. He admires the Prince’s lips, in more ways than one, and they were the first thing to catch his sight. He thinks about all the kisses he could steal, all the possible times he could shove Anatole to his knees and use the Prince’s throat just for his own pleasure - oh sweet, merciful God, Dolokhov wants it all.

When Dolokhov sees Anatole cock his eyebrow at him and give a muffled snicker, he knows it’s time to pull his fingers out and Anatole catches his breath. “I thought I’d never be finished,” the Prince laughs. “I feel as if that gets you off more than actually- _fuck…_ ”

Dolokhov snickers in victory of shutting Anatole up. He’s already pushed a finger into Anatole, letting it crook and pump very slowly, agonizingly slow. “Have I met your ‘standards’ yet, dear Prince?”

Anatole’s panting and twisting his hands into the sheets of his bed, he’s covered from neck to torso in dark hickeys, his crystal blue eyes occasionally squeeze shut with a grimace of the new yet familiar feeling inside of him. “You’re way past them, darling,” he smiles, yet the smile soon melts away when Dolokhov’s fingers crook in deeper. “There!” Anatole cries and bucks his hips down. “There, right there, darling, _monsieur,_ oh please don’t stop, Fedya, please.” He arches his back and screams again when Dolokhov’s fingers prod that spot again, and a lewd smile crawls onto his lips. “Oh, _oui monsieur,_ keep touching me there and I’ll… I-I’ll…”

Dolokhov catches on and grabs Anatole’s throat. “Don’t come,” he snarls, his fingers stopping. “I’m not finished with you yet. Merely getting you all ready to use and play with, and you want relief now?”

Anatole gasps abruptly with another buck of his hips, only for him to realize Dolokhov’s fingers are slowly sliding out. “No,” he mumbles. “N-No, Fedya, I’ll be good _monsieur,_ please—” Dolokhov’s grip only tightens, as if the use of pet names will do anything except arouse and aggravate Dolokhov further. It’s not until Anatole coughs that Dolokhov releases and waits for the Prince to catch his breath. “Just fuck me now, darling,” Anatole breathes. “Damn you, I— I can’t take it. Fuck me.”

Dolokhov oils his cock just slightly. “You’re lucky I’m so compliant with your begging now rather than later,” he says, teasing with his tip against the entrance. “Only because I’m not willing to let you go so easily.”

Anatole digs his nails into Dolokhov’s back again, the soldier giving a sharp grunt. “Fuck me,” he growls in a tone that tests Dolokhov’s proclaimed will to comply. “Fuck me, you’ve teased long enough. You can sweet talk for so long before I…” the Prince suddenly screams and arches his back with wide eyes — while he was growling out his desires, Dolokhov had slidden into Anatole with one smooth thrust. The scream and thrust leaves Anatole breathless and whiny, he can do nothing but twitch his hips up and scrunch his face in the typical, mild discomfort.

Dolokhov smirks. “What?” He croons, pushing Anatole’s hair back from his face. “Were you about to say something, sweet Prince? Before you what?”

“B-Before I get _impatient,_ ” Anatole stresses with a gasp.

“And what could you have done if you got impatient?” Dolokhov, while he talks, gets into a habit of pulling away slightly, then slamming right back in with another sharp yelp from the Prince under him. “Wouldn’t you rather endure this teasing than try to stop it, since you know it’d all be worth it in the end if you were good? If you were good for me by just laying down and let me explore you, rather than be such an agonizing tease and have the audacity to think you could control how I should fuck you?” He presses Anatole’s leg against his waist. “Wouldn’t you rather be good for me?”

“I… no, I-I…” Anatole whines before he has to consider it, to which his body starts relaxing and adjusting with the thrusts. “ _Prends moi,_ ” he mutters weakly. “ _Monsieur, tu m’excites, c’est bon… plus vite, plus vite!_ ”

With that, Dolokhov grabs Anatole by the hips and begins to fuck him in an actual rhythm, and Anatole soaks up every bit of it.

Dolokhov’s hips waste no time in being rough, sporadic, and thrusting deep into where his prostate is located. His hand will occasionally wrap around Anatole’s throat, making sure it’s okay beforehand, and grip tightly. When Anatole gently squeezes his wrist, Dolokhov is aware the Prince has had enough, so he switches to holding and tugging his hair until it’s time for the next round. It takes Dolokhov a few moments to find Anarole’s prostate again, but when he hits it, Anatole _lets him know._ Screams of his name and pleas to _fuck me harder, please monsieur, fuck me faster_ could probably be heard across Anatole’s home, and Dolokhov has to shove fingers in his mouth just so Anatole won’t alert anyone nearby.

Dolokhov can’t help but admire the sight of Anatole while railing him. His blond hair is such a mess; his cheeks are flushed and dusted pink; his swollen and sore lips are wrapped around his fingers, suckling and slowly lapsing his tongue - causing shivers up Dolokhov’s spine - in an attempt to stay quiet; his hips roll and grind down to meet Dolokhov’s cock and slam it against his prostate; his whines and moans become occasionally strained by Dolokhov’s brief choking sessions; his clear, crystal, glittering eyes are all that Dolokhov can see, begging for all things pleasure and relief; love bites and dark bruises line him from the crook of his neck all the way down to his waist, each one deeply sucked and kissed at; Anatole is beyond beautiful, Dolokhov realizes. The Prince is beyond gorgeous, stunning, outstanding, amazing, enchanting, _bewitching._

“Fedya,” Anatole twists the sheets in his hands and pants hard. “I’m close,” he warns. “I’m so close, I can’t take it. I-I’ll cum soon, darling, _mon coeur, monsieur_ please.” Dolokhov holds onto Anatole’s hair with one hand while the other holds his hips at an angle to hit his prostate three times in a row, resulting in Anatole shouting, “There, there, right there!”

“Wait for me,” Dolokhov groans lowly. “Wait for me, I’m not done with you yet, love… I’m almost there, I’m a-almost there…” despite Dolokhov’s demands to wait, it doesn’t stop Anatole’s noises from getting progressively higher pitched and tighter sounding in his throat. Dolokhov has to push his own orgasm down so hard he’s almost dizzy - he just wants to admire Anatole for a little while longer, watch his face scrunch up and blush scarlet, watch him bite his lips over and over again and try not to be bottom-of-the-barrel begging for relief. His hips grow more erratic and unrhythmic and desperate in their pace, and Dolokhov can do nothing but growl “Come for me,” into the Prince’s ear before warmth floods into his gut and throughout his whole body.

Anatole _screams_ and drags his nails hard down Dolokhov’s back while he releases onto his abdomen, his eyes rolling back when Dolokhov comes deep inside him. Just before he comes, Anatole cries, "I love you," and he can't stop saying it after that. His screams of love die down to whimpers, then into simple, soft panting whilst Dolokhov slowly pulls out and crashes into bed beside him. Anatole’s whole body is trembling, Dolokhov’s legs are so weak, the both of them just lay there in silence for a while before Anatole weakly reaches out for something to hold and meekly says, “You’ve expanded my expectations.”

Dolokhov smiles, cocky, yet ses what little strength he has to pull the blanket out from under them and over their bodies, take Anatole’s hand and pull him close. “In all my years of clubbing, it’s never ended like this.”

Anatole laughs breathlessly against Dolokhov’s neck. “You know…” he mumbles. “Maybe we can do this again, some other day.”

“Meet up like this?”

“Or meet up in general,” Anatole’s cheeks grow a soft rose color. “You know how to give me a good time… I’ve only just met you, yet I’m more than ecstatic to know… what else you do to have fun~”

Dolokhov snickers. “A lot of things.” He leaves a chilling kiss on Anatole’s neck. “But for now, I’m too exhausted to list them.”

“As am I.” Anatole gives a yawn and relaxes his body.

“Your family won’t question why I’m here, right?”

“If they’re not awake by now,” Anatole giggles. “If… you do intend to stay.”

“Why would I not?”

“It’s not how these kinds of nights… typically go.”

“Well, I’m not one to follow rules. I’m a forward man.”

“You’ve proved that,” Anatole smirks and nestles into Dolokhov’s neck. “Dream well, soldier boy.”

“Sleep well, Kuragin.”

Soldier boy. Dolokhov likes that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 2 am, my phones on 20% and ive worked on this for a month bc ive got exams coming up
> 
> goodnight pls leave kudos+comment if u want

**Author's Note:**

> i thought abt writing a pt 2 where it's their first hookup just for shits n gigs? what are ur thoughts lemme know


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